A Prince Forgiven - Interlude Chapter 30

One day, Issei Hyoudou suddenly woke up in a dragon’s lair. Yes, a colossal, six-limbed, fire-breathing monstrosity of myth, the sort of creature that kidnapped princesses and slept upon mountains of gold. 

That had been the beginning of the strangest and most miserable period of Issei’s life, which was saying something, considering the day before that, he had been kidnapped by a devil and trapped inside an illusion where he watched his parents die. Issei had once believed that the worst thing that could happen to him was dying a virgin, failing an exam, or getting caught staring at a girl’s chest for too long. Fate has a twisted sense of humour.

Sand stretched in every direction, while heat shimmered above the dunes and twisted the horizon into shapes that looked almost alive. Issei crossed that wasteland alone, wrapped in a ragged black cloak over armor that had grown from the power sleeping inside him. 

Three months ago, he had been an ordinary Japanese boy with thin arms, and ambitions that rarely extended beyond surviving school long enough to see another swimsuit season. Now he had become a seven foot tall half-dragon half-man, his muscles packed beneath crimson scales. His shadow looked like a monster’s shadow. He had noticed it weeks ago, when he passed a river and saw horns rising from his head and a pair of burning feline green eyes staring back at him from the water. 

A dragon does not complain about heat, Tiamat had told him while forcing him to crawl across volcanic glass until his hands split open. A dragon does not beg, she had said as she buried him beneath stone and made him claw his way out before he suffocated. A dragon does not forgive humiliation, she had whispered after breaking every bone in his body and leaving him beside a pool of molten rock until his Sacred Gear repaired the damage. 

He hated her. That unreasonable she-dragon. He hated the memory of telling her that he was Issei Hyoudou, son of Hyoudou Gorou and Hyoudou Miki, ordinary human, innocent of whatever Ddraig had done centuries before his birth. 

Tiamat had listened with her chin resting upon one clawed hand and the faintest trace of boredom in her expression. When he finished, she declared him guilty of theft, insult, trespass, and the desecration of sovereign property. Ddraig had stolen from her hoard during some ancient feud whose details Issei still did not fully understand, and the treasures had scattered across the world through wars and the greedy hands of creatures who had no idea what they possessed. The fact that Issei had no idea or was in no way responsible about this whatsoever meant horseshit. 

Tiamat had offered redemption afterward - he would recover every fragment of her stolen hoard and carry the shame of the Heavenly Dragon bound inside him until she decided the debt had been paid. In what absurd world would an innocent have to pay for the crime done by someone else millennia ago?

Well no matter, I’ll make them all regret it, her and that filthy devil. It’s all his fault. 

He had been dealt a bad hand. Meruem had shuffled the cards, Tiamat had set the stakes, and Ddraig had left old debts scattered across the table like bloodstained coins. Issei could spend his life cursing the dealer until the game ended over his grave, or he could seize the whole damned table, break its legs, and build something of his own from the timber. He refused to succumb to despair.

Each day Issei trained, each monster he killed, and each piece of treasure he dragged back to that cursed lair became another step toward the hour when he would stand before Meruem Beleth and make him understand what he had created.

He reached the crest of a high dune and looked down upon a valley of black stone, where the sand ended in a wide circle around a crater that seemed to have been burned into the desert by some ancient impact. At its center stood the broken remains of a temple, its pillars carved with winged serpents and crowned kings, while half the structure had sunk beneath the earth. The lesser dragon lived below those ruins. 

Tiamat had named him Varganesh, a desert wyrm with the temerity to call himself the Gilded Tyrant. According to her, he possessed one of the Nine Solar Chalices, golden vessels forged for Tiamat before the rise of Rome and stolen by Ddraig. Issei did not care about the chalice, its history, its craftsmanship, or the insult it represented to Tiamat’s pride. He just hoped that Varganesh was strong enough to make this journey useful and every obstacle to teach him something he could someday use against that accursed devil.

Issei breathed it in and felt his pupils narrow. His hearing stretched outward through the ruins, catching the scrape of claws against stone deep below and the slow pulse of something vast sleeping beneath the temple. These senses still unsettled him. Human ears should not hear a heartbeat through fifty meters of rock. Human noses should not recognize fear, illness, or power from scent. He feared that by the end, he would be more a dragon than a man.

“You can hear me, can’t you?” Issei murmured, though no answer came from the red dragon sealed within him. “You always go quiet when I ask the important questions.”

The jewel set into his left gauntlet glimmered once, dim enough that he might have imagined it.

Issei laughed without humor and began descending the dune. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Everybody has something to say when they want something. The moment I ask why I’m paying for your crimes, suddenly the legendary Heavenly Dragon becomes shy.”

The silence remained.

“You’re the one who stole from her,” Issei continued as he reached the black stone. “You stole enough treasure to keep me running around the world until I’m old, assuming dragons even get old the same way humans do. Did you ever think about who might carry you later? Did you know who’d clean up after you? Did you care about anything other than yourself at all?”

[I lived as dragons live. As is my right as the greatest of them all. If you’re not happy with your lot in life, then seek power to change it.]

“I hate all of you! All of you who presume to dictate my life for me! I don’t want power, I want to go back home!”

Ddraig offered no protest. That almost made Issei angrier. An apology would have been useless, but he still wanted one dammit. 

His fingers tightened around the sword hilt until the leather creaked. “I’m going to kill that bastard who dragged me into all of this. I’m going to become strong enough that Tiamat can’t order me around. Then I’m going home. I don’t care what law dragons follow, and I don’t care what this world thinks weakness means. I will make them regret touching my life.”

The temple entrance waited below, a jagged opening between collapsed walls. Issei walked toward it while blue-white fire crawled across his armor, gathering around his shoulders and arms in slow ribbons. The flame had appeared during the second month of Tiamat’s training, born from the fusion of Ddraig’s power and something Tiamat had forced awake through repeated exposure to her dragonfire. She called it [Tyrant Flame.]

He entered the ruins and followed a descending corridor wide enough for a truck, passing murals that showed humans kneeling before a long golden serpent. Broken bones lay beneath the sand along the walls, some animal, some human, and several large enough to belong to creatures Issei could not name. Varganesh had ruled this region through fear for centuries. Nomads left offerings at the crater. Travelers vanished when they crossed his territory. Tiamat had explained these facts like it was normal, then told Issei to retrieve her chalice and kill the thief if resistance occurred.

Dragons rarely surrendered treasure so resistance was inevitable. Issei understood that instinct now, which bothered him enough that he tried to ignore it. He had begun collecting small things during his journeys, sometimes coins, sometimes stones that caught the light in a pleasing way. He kept them hidden beneath his sleeping platform in Tiamat’s lair. The collection had no value, but the thought of someone touching it sent a sharp possessive anger through his chest. 

The corridor opened into an underground chamber filled with gold. Coins lay in drifts against the walls. Statues, crowns, jeweled weapons, ceremonial masks, and cracked tablets rose from the treasure like debris from a golden sea. The hoard glowed beneath lines of sunlight pouring through fractures in the ceiling, and for a moment Issei understood why dragons killed for such places. Something in his blood stirred with hunger. His eyes moved across the piles, judging size, rarity, and the safest place to sleep among them.

He slapped the side of his helmet hard enough to ring the metal.

“Human,” he muttered. “I’m human. Not a dragon, stop getting giddy eyed at the sight of a treasure.”

A rumble rolled through the chamber. “You carry the scent of the Red Dragon,” a voice said from the darkness beyond the hoard.

Issei raised his sword. Two enormous golden eyes opened beneath an archway. A long head emerged, covered in bronze scales with ridges of black horn sweeping backward from the jaw and brow. Varganesh crawled into the light on four limbs, each claw long enough to split a man from shoulder to hip, while folded wings dragged across the treasure and sent coins cascading around his body. He stood nearly twenty meters from snout to tail, leaner than Tiamat and much smaller, though his presence pressed against the chamber with enough force to make the stone groan.

“You are small, hatchling," Varganesh said.

Issei looked up at the dragon. “I get that a lot lately. You must be Varganesh. Tiamat sends her regards.”

The dragon’s lips pulled back from rows of pale teeth. “The queen has finally grown desperate enough to send a hatchling after what belongs to me.”

“The chalice belongs to her. I would appreciate it if you could just let me take it. She's been missing her toys.”

“All treasure belongs to the dragon capable of keeping it.” Varganesh stepped forward, and the hoard shifted beneath his weight. “How is it that you smell the Red dragon on you?....Hmm, I understand, Ddraig dwells within you.”

“Look, man, I’ve had a strange few months. And I just wanna kill some people and go home and check on my parents, god knows if they're even alive. Would it hurt anyone in this god forsaken world to just not stand in my way?!”

“Insolence! You presume to command me?” the dragon roared. “I, Vargnesh, the dragon of the Gilded cage, mightiest dragon of his age. You will surrender the Boosted Gear, hatchling, and I may preserve your skull among my trophies.”

What else did I expect? Issei thought angrily. The wrath inside him rose with a familiar calm, spreading through his body until every sense sharpened and the fire along his red armor turned purple at the edges.

“My name is Issei Hyoudou,” he said. “Not Hatchling. I’m tired of saying that to you dragons.”

Varganesh opened his jaws, and light gathered between his teeth with a shriek that made the treasure vibrate. Issei moved as the dragon spat out a beam that seemed to envelop everything. The chamber vanished beneath white-gold radiance, and the blast tore through pillars and buried foundations before erupting from the crater in a pillar visible for miles. 

Amid the light, a figure jumped into the air. Issei rose through the collapsing ceiling with fire streaming behind him, his scale mail now fully manifested. He gripped the broadsword in both hands while the Boosted Gear pulsed along his left arm.

[Boost.]

He swung the broadsword upward, and countless bluish-white flames tinged with purple condensed around him. Each flame lengthened into a spear, their points aimed downward at Varganesh as the dragon burst from the ruins in a wave of gold and black stone. Hundreds became thousands, filling the sky in ordered ranks. They resembled the weapons of an illusory army, every spear carrying the force of Issei’s wrath and the heat of a dragon’s furnace.

The spears descended. Varganesh roared and spread his wings, turning his body as fire hammered his scales. Explosions marched across his massive body, each impact leaving purple flame clinging to bronze armor. He answered with another beam, sweeping it across the sky. Issei crossed his sword before his body and drove power into the blade. The light struck him and hurled him through three pillars of stone before he twisted in the air, planted one boot against a falling slab, and launched himself forward again.

Pain screamed through his arms. He felt skin split beneath the armor. Tiamat’s voice surfaced in his memory, cold and merciless.

A dragon advances through pain.

“Shut up,” Issei growled, though she stood hundreds of miles away.

Varganesh lunged upward, jaws opening wide enough to swallow him whole. Issei waited until the last moment, then drove a burst of flame beneath his feet and shot sideways. Teeth snapped shut where his torso had been. He landed upon the dragon’s snout, ran between the ridges of horn, and stabbed downward with both hands. The sword point struck the scale and skidded aside in a burst of sparks.

Varganesh shook his head violently. Issei lost his footing and caught one horn with his left hand.

“You insolent creature! You dare stand upon me?” the dragon thundered.

Varganesh rolled in the air. The desert spun beneath them, sky and ground exchanging places as the dragon tried to crush Issei beneath his own weight. Issei released the horn, fell along the dragon’s neck, and drove his armored fingers between two damaged scales. Purple fire poured into the wound.

Varganesh’s scream cracked the glassed dunes below. One wing struck Issei and launched him across the crater. He hit the ground shoulder-first, bounced twice, and carved a trench through molten sand before stopping beneath a cloud of dust. His right arm bent at an ugly angle. Blood filled his mouth.

For several seconds, he lay still and watched the sky. He remembered his father teaching him to ride a bicycle, running behind him with one hand on the seat. He remembered falling, scraping his knee, and crying. His mother had cleaned it while telling him he was brave. His father had bought him ice cream. He wondered if things would ever be the same again.

Issei pushed himself upright. His arm snapped back into place with a wet crack as dragon power forced bone together. He swallowed the blood in his mouth and stared at Varganesh circling above the crater.

[Boost.]

The gauntlet answered. Power doubled again, flooding his body until the ground cracked beneath his feet. Flame rolled from the seams of his armor and spread across the crater in branching streams. Varganesh dove with claws extended, his mouth gathering another sphere of white-gold light.

Issei bent his knees and leaped. The beam erupted. Issei passed through its edge, armor peeling away in molten fragments while heat stripped the cloak from his back. He smelled his own flesh burning. He roared through clenched teeth and drove forward, each pulse of the Boosted Gear forcing him higher against the blast.

[Boost.]

Varganesh’s eye widened as Issei emerged from the light directly before him.

Issei summoned the illusory army again. Flaming spears formed across the sky, though this time they remained suspended. Each spear mirrored the angle of his sword. Each carried a fragment of the force building through his body. He drew the blade back while afterimages of himself appeared in the air, dozens of armored figures following the same motion a fraction behind him.

Varganesh twisted, trying to turn his armored brow toward the strike.

Issei landed upon the dragon’s head. He planted both feet between the horns and swung his sword down. The afterimages he had created overlapped at once, while every suspended spear converged upon the same point. Sword rays crossed through the air like intersecting lightning. The combined strike crashed into the damaged scales above Varganesh’s skull.

The impact sounded like the sky splitting. The ground shook wildly. Varganesh fell from the air and struck the crater with enough force to collapse the remaining ruins. Dark gold blood sprayed across the glassed sand. The dragon’s wings folded beneath him, and his claws gouged long trenches as his body slid to a stop.

Issei remained standing upon his head, sword buried to the hilt.

Varganesh was still breathing. Each breath came as a wet, broken rumble. One golden eye rolled toward Issei, filled with rage, disbelief, and the first touch of fear.

“You,” the dragon rasped, “are no human.”

Issei pulled the sword free and stepped down onto the sand. Blood ran from cracks in his armor and hissed when it touched the heated ground. He looked at his hands, at the claws tipping his armored fingers, and felt the ancient hunger inside him responding to the fallen dragon’s weakness. He could smell Varganesh’s heart. He knew exactly where to strike.

“I decide what I am,” Issei said.

Varganesh tried to rise. One foreleg trembled beneath his weight. “A slave! That is what you are. A slave to Tiamat’s whims. No true Dragon bows his head to another. How far the mighty Red Dragon has fallen.”

“Shut up!” Issei roared, his voice echoing through the shattered cavern.

He strode toward the dying dragon until he stood beside its broken ribs, where dark gold blood poured from the gaping wound in steaming torrents. For a brief moment he simply stared at the creature, then thrust his armored hand into its chest. Flesh split apart beneath his gauntlet as his fingers wrapped around the dragon’s still beating heart. With one savage pull, he tore the colossal organ free.

The heartbeat thundered through his arms and Varganesh’s golden eyes widened in horror, as Issei raised the enormous heart to his mouth and sank his teeth deep into it. Hot blood flooded his tongue with a taste that made his stomach churn. Every instinct screamed at him to spit it out. Every shred of his humanity recoiled in disgust. Yet he forced himself to swallow.

Power erupted through every vein. His muscles swelled with strength, his scales hardened like living armor, and his heart pounded with renewed vigor as the dragon’s power became his own. 

Dragons were power made manifest. Ddraig had taught him that after the first young dragon he had slain, urging him to consume its heart so its strength would become his own. Fight. Consume. Grow. Issei had hated it then, and he hated it now with every fiber of his being. Every mouthful felt like another piece of his humanity slipping through his fingers. Yet hatred changed nothing. As long as he remained weak, he had no luxury to reject the means of becoming stronger.

[Hunt! Kill! Devour!] Ddraig’s voice rumbled through his soul like distant thunder. [Thus have dragons endured the dawn of creation. Thus shall dragons endure until the final star falls from the heavens. The scruples of the meek are chains forged by those too feeble to seize dominion. Power alone sanctifies. Victory alone justifies. Such has ever been the law written into the bones of this world.]

[You are the vessel of my vengeance, the sword of my wrath, the flesh through which my glory shall once more walk beneath the heavens. I am Ddraig, the Heavenly Dragon of Domination. The skies remember my name and mountains my fury. Kings bent their knees when my wings eclipsed the sun. We shall hunt. We shall burn. We shall cast every obstacle into ash until the Heavens themselves acknowledge their rightful sovereign once more. Albion, my ancient enemy, shall kneel before us, and all creation shall remember why I–.]

“Shut up!” Issei shouted, his voice cracking with fury. “I’m not doing any of this for you!”

…

…

Elsewhere

[The Dark Angel's Library]

“Naburazad is dead?”

A bespectacled young man, who appeared no older than his mid twenties, stood within a vast library whose towering shelves were filled with books, grimoires, and tomes thousands of years old, some so ancient that their origins had long since faded into myth. His black hair was neatly slicked back, and an elegant black suit hung perfectly upon his lean frame. A dusty volume rested in his hands as he calmly turned another page, his back remaining to the kneeling woman behind him, as though the report she had brought did not yet warrant his full attention.

“Yes, my Lord,” Tadhiel, a fourth generation Fallen Angel, replied nervously. “A young devil, together with several Longinus wielders, confronted him and defeated him. I witnessed his death with my own eyes. I apologize, I couldn’t d-”

“Calm down, Tadhiel,” the young man said gently.

A crystal wine glass appeared before her, followed moments later by an uncorked bottle that lifted itself into the air. Deep crimson wine poured into the waiting glass without a hand touching it.

“Please, have a drink. It should settle your nerves. Dionysus gifted me this particular vintage. It’s above average.”

“T… Thank you, my Lord.”

Tadhiel bowed her head repeatedly before accepting the glass with both hands. She took a cautious sip, though she remained kneeling.

“A young devil… accompanied by several Longinus wielders,” the young man mused as he continued idly turning the pages of his book. “That’s an unusual combination. I can count upon one hand the number of devils capable of slaying Naburazad, with fingers left to spare. Did one of the Satans involve themselves?”

“No, Your Eminence.” She shook her head immediately. “The devil in question was someone Lord Naburazad had already slain once before, yet he somehow returned from death. He is the young prodigy who has recently shaken the Underworld. King Meruem of House Beleth. It was he who ultimately slew Lord Naburazad through… unconventional means.”

“King Meruem…?”

For the first time, the young man paused. He closed the book, returned it carefully to its place upon the shelf, and finally turned to face the kneeling angel.

“Yes… I have heard the name before. The seventeen year old devil who recently reached the realm of Ultimate Class, is he not? An extraordinary accomplishment for one so young.” His expression remained thoughtful. “How did such an individual come into conflict with Naburazad?”

“King Meruem had reincarnated one of the human test subjects into his household,” Tadhiel explained, her voice carrying unmistakable bitterness. “The agency attempted to abduct one of the devil’s servants I believe, though I don’t know if king Meruem reincarnated the target before or after the fact. Knowing King Meruem’s temperament, he interpreted the act as a personal insult and responded with the excessive violence for which he has already become infamous. I also witnessed Lavinia Reni, an agent of Mephistopheles, fighting alongside him. They had formed a temporary alliance against Lord Naburazad.”

“You said Naburazad killed the Beleth boy once,” the young man said thoughtfully. “How did he return to life?”

“I don’t know for certain, O Exalted One,” Tadhiel answered quietly. “My Authority of Stealth only works if I keep a sufficient distance from my target. I dared not approach any closer, and so I could neither hear what King Meruem spoke to Lord Naburazad nor discern the means by which he escaped death. I witnessed only Lord Naburazad tear the devil’s heart from his chest, and later I witnessed that same devil return alive.”

Tadhiel had been assigned to shadow Naburazad months ago with Nephilim's knowledge. As an Eight Winged Fallen Angel, her Authority rendered her existence all but impossible to perceive once its conditions had been fulfilled. She had observed kingdoms rise and collapse without a single soul realizing she had stood among them. But even she had only been able to watch in silence as events unfolded beyond her understanding.

“That’s unfortunate,” the young man sighed, closing the book in his hands. “I had hoped Naburazad would prove more reliable. It seems my faith in him was misplaced. No matter. Great works are seldom completed upon the first attempt. We shall simply begin anew, though it shall cost us another few decades. What of [Subject Zero]?” 

“I do not know, my Lord,” Tadhiel replied, lowering her head. “When it became clear that Lord Naburazad was losing the battle, I judged the risk too great to attempt Lady Azrael’s retrieval. Even weakened, a Seraph is still a Seraph. I did not believe I possessed the strength to subdue her and escape alive.”

He glanced toward her with neutral eyes. “Were you able to salvage anything?”

Without another word, Tadhiel produced a cylindrical vessel nearly the height of her forearm. It had been forged from impossibly clear crystal, its flawless surface etched with concentric circles of silver scripture that shimmered faintly beneath the library’s dim light. Within sloshed a thick emerald suspension whose unnatural viscosity caused it to move with unsettling slowness, as though the liquid itself resisted disturbance. Countless translucent ova drifted within the solution, each scarcely larger than a fingernail. Veins of pale gold pulsed beneath their membranes with rhythmic beats, while tiny silhouettes curled inside them in embryonic repose. Minute wings, scarcely more than fragile buds, occasionally twitched against the translucent shells before falling still once again. 

Tadhiel carefully presented the vessel. “This was the final project Lord Naburazad devoted himself to before his death,” she said. “I do not know its purpose.”

The young man accepted the cylinder with surprising delicacy, examining the floating embryos as though admiring a priceless work of art.

A warm smile spread across his face. “Wonderful! Magnificent! Then perhaps nothing of value has been lost after all.”

“What is it, my lord?” Tadhiel asked curiously.

His fingers traced one of the silver inscriptions upon the glass. “This, Tadhiel… this is the answer.”

“The answer?”

“This is the answer to the question that has echoed since the first dawn. Who is like God?” His golden eyes settled upon her. “What do you believe to be God’s greatest creation, Tadhiel? Which work bears His highest genius? Which masterpiece stands forever beyond imitation?”

She considered the question carefully. “The Sacred Gears, my Lord?”

“The Sacred Gears are undoubtedly among the greatest works ever conceived,” Satanael said with an approving nod. “The mastery and artistry needed to create such a miracle is nearly incomprehensible, a work of art surpassing anything Bezalel could have imagined. I have devoted millennia to the study of their construction, and every new discovery only deepens my admiration for the intellect that conceived them. But it is not beyond replication, Azazel has proved as much. Were several gods to combine their Authorities and knowledge toward a common purpose, I believe they could eventually reproduce something comparable as well. For that reason, I cannot call the Sacred Gears His supreme masterpiece. The greatest work of a creator must possess a quality so singular that no assembly of lesser craftsmen, however gifted, could ever hope to imitate it.” 

Tadhiel hesitated before speaking again. “Humanity, then. Adam was fashioned in God’s own image.”

The library fell silent. Then the wine bottle exploded. Crystal shattered across the marble floor as though struck by an invisible hammer. The untouched glass burst apart a heartbeat later. Every candle throughout the library flickered violently. Shelves groaned beneath an unseen pressure. A deafening peal of thunder echoed through the chamber despite the cloudless heavens outside, and a violent wind swept between the towering bookcases, sending loose parchment spiraling through the air.

Tadhiel instinctively lowered herself further, unable to suppress the tremor running through her body.

“Adam? His finest creation?” He laughed. “You astonish me, Tadhiel. A creature fashioned from clay, animated by borrowed breath, imprisoned within flesh and spends his brief lives warring against hunger, disease, pride, envy, lust, and fear before surrendering themselves once more to the soil from which they came. And this is called perfection?

“Even Pygmalion could breathe life only into marble already shaped. We, the heavenly host on the other hand, were wrought from celestial fire, given form by His own Grace, from substance untouched by decay and unburdened by appetite. We neither aged nor withered, neither hungered nor decayed. Every feather upon our wings proclaimed His majesty, every note of our voices joined the eternal hymn of creation, every thought reflected the brilliance of the One who fashioned us. And yet…He commanded that the eldest kneel before the youngest, that the everlasting bow before the ephemeral. To creatures who would build idols from stone. To creatures who would betray prophets, corrupt kingdoms, and stain the earth with rivers of innocent blood. Inconceivable! Clay remains clay even when filled with spirit, for the vessel forever limits what it contains, and no breath bestowed upon dust can make it greater than the fire of creation. No. They are not his masterpieces. Who better than us can answer the question that has echoed since the beginning. Who is like God?”

“I do not understand, O Exalted One.” Tadhiel gestured toward the crystal vessel. “How would… this answer the question?”

“Naburazad believed Project Genesis existed to restore the true Nephilim,” Satanael said with an amused chuckle. “He believed that if he took Azrael’s ova and joined their ousia with a human womb, the children of the Watchers would walk the earth again. Hamartia. He spent centuries chasing that dream like the Millenarians after Münster. A shame, really. It could never have succeeded.”

“Why?”

“A true Nephilim is a magnificent being,” Satanael replied. “There are very few races in all of creation born with such frightening potential. Even so, perfection was forever beyond their reach. How could it be otherwise? They were born from the union of the Sons of Fire and the Children of Clay. Fire reaches upward. Clay forever sinks back into the earth from which it came. They inherited our Grace, yet they also inherited Adam’s weakness. Pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, and sloth was their inheritance as one made of earth. Every poison carried by mankind flowed through their veins alongside celestial blood. Why would I spend centuries bringing back a race that already proved its own failure? So they can cover the earth in blood once again? So another Flood becomes necessary? I saw no reason to recreate a species whose legacy had already demonstrated its shortcomings.” 

Tadhiel felt a chill crawl down her spine. “Then what were the ova for?”

A smile slowly spread across Satanael’s face. “They were gathered for a far greater purpose. They were gathered to give birth to perfection.”

“You… you mean…?” Tadhiel whispered, her voice trembling.

“I told you already, did I not?” Satanael said with a warm smile. “I have moved beyond scholarship, Tadhiel. I have entered the God business. Look closely at what you are holding. There are one hundred and fifty ova inside that vessel. Every one of them was bred entirely from a pure angelic stock. When they are brought to term, every child born from them will become a Twelve Winged Seraph - the highest of the choir.

“Think about what that means. Since the dawn of creation, no being has ever created an angel. That privilege belonged to God alone. Yet here I stand, having crossed the threshold He reserved for Himself. Tell me, Tadhiel, if a man learns to do what only God could once accomplish, what separates that man from God?”

Tadhiel could only stare at him.

Her thoughts refused to comprehend the absurdity of what she was hearing. A Twelve Winged Seraph stood among the mightiest beings in existence. They rivaled God-Kings such as Zeus, Odin, Amaterasu, and the Four Great Satans themselves. Only the handful of Transcendent Beings who existed beyond ordinary measures of power stood above them. One Seraph could alter the balance of an entire war. One hundred and fifty would overturn the balance of the world itself. No fcation, not even the vast Hindu Pantheon could hope to match such overwhelming numbers. Even during the height of the Great War, God Himself had never created more than twenty Seraphim. Satanael was calmly speaking of an army over seven times that size.

“Of course,” Satanael continued, “creation is never so accommodating. These one hundred and fifty children still need a suitable theophoric vessel, and that is where the true difficulty begins. No ordinary woman could carry even one of them. Her body would collapse long before the child ever drew its first breath. That was why I deceived Naburazad. I told him he was searching for vessels that would restore the Nephilim. I knew that promise would keep him obedient, and I hoped fortune would smile upon him and place the right woman in his path.” 

He gave a quiet sigh. “It did not. No matter. I have eternity, and eternity has always favored those with patience. If I must search for centuries, then centuries it shall be. If I must search until the stars themselves grow cold, then I shall still continue. The vessel exists somewhere within creation. I have no doubt of that. The day I find her, these children will be born, one hundred and fifty Seraphs shall descend upon the world beneath my banner, every kingdom shall bend before their light, the gates of Heaven shall collapse beneath their power, and all creation shall become the foundation upon which I build my new order.”

“What will you do about King Meruem, my Lord?” Tadhiel asked cautiously. “Should he discover Lady Azrael’s whereabouts and your plans, would he not become a thorn in your side?”

“A curious young devil,” Satanael said with a faint smile. “So very reminiscent of Icarus. He flies ever higher, so intoxicated by his own ascent that he never notices the eyes fixed upon him below. Devils, Dragons, Angels, Gods. One by one they begin looking toward the same sky, each carrying a grievance of his own. Their roads begin apart, but resentment is a patient guide. In the end, all travelers end up in the same destination. We need only ensure they arrive together.”

AN: I’ll add a few annotations for Satanael’s dialogue below. As amusing as it would’ve been, I don’t think an immortal angel would interrupt his grand villain monologue every thirty seconds with, “Fun fact, Tadhiel…”

Bezalel: The master craftsman chosen by God in Exodus to construct the Tabernacle and the Ark of the Covenant. Satanael invokes him as the greatest mortal artisan when discussing the Sacred Gears.

Pygmalion: A sculptor from Greek mythology who carved a woman from ivory so perfect that Aphrodite granted the statue life.

Hamartia: Literally “missing the mark.” Satanael uses it in its original sense to describe Naburazad’s fatal misconception.

The Millenarians of Münster: A radical Anabaptist movement that seized the German city of Münster, believing they were establishing the Kingdom of God on Earth. Their movement ended in catastrophe. Satanael compares Naburazad’s lifelong pursuit of the Nephilim to a man devoting his life to a fundamentally mistaken vision.

With that little bit of trivia out of the way, we can now get back to people scheming, more importantly, Issei is back. As most of you predicted, he's been training under Tiamat, and, well... let's just say he's not exactly thrilled about everything that's happened.

In the next arc, we'll return to the Underworld to see what everyone's been cooking behind the scenes. A certain greek goddess has finally decided it's time to collect on a debt.